Bye, Bye, Goodbye
by Wilhelmina Willoughby
Summary: L/J. It's the most twisted love story: unrequited, unknown. Maybe she deserves it. She gave it up, after all. It was hers, always hers, but she pushed it away and now she can only watch it given to others. She broke him. And that's what haunts her.
1. Bleeding

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"Goodbye, my almost lover  
Goodbye, my hopeless dream  
I'm trying not to think about you  
Can't you just let me be?  
So long, my luckless romance  
My back is turned on you  
Should've known you'd bring me heartache  
Almost lovers always do

_I cannot go to the ocean  
I cannot drive the streets at night  
I cannot wake up in the morning  
Without you on my mind  
So you're gone and I'm haunted  
And I bet you are just fine"_

- A Fine Frenzy, "Almost Lover"

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She watches him from across the room, watches his smile as he listens to the other girl speak, her arms gesturing enthusiastically because she knows that she has his attention. Lily sits on the other side of the room and tries not to think about how she wants that smile for herself, how she wants to sit in the armchair in front of him and garner his full attention, all of it, all for herself. It's not hers anymore. She gave that up; she pushed it away. Bye, bye, _goodbye._

She tries to hide it away from herself, but it's there. She _wants_. Oh, does she want. He's only a few footsteps away but it's like a stretch of sky-black ocean, its depth unfathomable, dark and gaping, a distance she cannot cross. She is not God; she cannot walk upon that water and call forth the miracle that will erase the past and erase her mistakes and erase the green of envy shining through her eyes. She can only sit and watch and want. She can say goodbye to what she could've had.

She likes to think that she's getting along well like this. She likes to think that she's fooling everyone. It's working so far, they haven't a clue; they don't pay enough attention to the things she vehemently denied every day since the first day they met her. It's an impossible thought – why would they entertain it when they know, in their faith in her own black, lying words, that she would never change her mind? What would they think if they knew how she's crossed herself, if they knew how it's eaten her up inside? What would they think if they knew how she sits up at night to imagine about how the day could've gone, the words she could've said, the looks she could've given and received in return? What would they think if they knew she says goodbye to a little piece of herself every time the moon falls in adherence to that domineering, searing sun?

She sits, holding herself together, reading a book with words she's not really grasping. She hears him laughing – worse yet, she knows it's fake. She knows, without that second-guessing doubt that she got so damned good at, that it's hollow, that he's laughing at nothing. She can't hear what he says next but the sound of it is wrong and somehow so very blasphemous, and when she looks up, he's not smiling anymore. He's looking at her. His eyes are dark, dark like the steps it would take to cross the room to him, dark like the sky that's become her friend, dark like the caverns of her heart that echo her goodbyes into infinity.

She doesn't look away. She lets him see it in her face. She lets her eyes call across the distance because it's all she can do; it's all she can hope for. She is not God; she cannot make him cross that ocean anymore than she can wish for it. She lets him see the guilt and the jealousy and the resignation in her face, lets the fire illuminate them so he can watch from the safe place that is afar. She doesn't know if he cares, doesn't know what he's thinking, doesn't know how he feels. She knows what she cares and thinks and feels, though, and it's everything she could've had, everything she thought she had to refuse, every single doubt that she's dredged up and confronted, that makes him look across the room at her that way, with those dark, stormy eyes. It's his silence. It's the _could have_, it's the _want, _it's the pain of the _goodbye_.

She escapes first, right up the stairs into her tower, a princess without a prince. It's the most twisted love story: unrequited, unconfessed, unlit, unknown. Maybe she deserves it. She gave it up, after all. It was hers – it was always hers – but she pushed it away, and now she can only watch it given to others. She watches, though, and what she sees is half-hearted: half smiles, half laughs, half hugs and caresses and kisses. She broke him. And that's what haunts her the most.

Bye, bye, _goodbye._

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	2. Broken

_A/N: Ahh, readers, reviewers: you guys are seriously too good to me. There aren't enough thank-yous in the world for all of you :)_

_One more after this. (I promise, promise I'm working on QS!)_

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_"Your fingertips across my skin  
The palm trees swaying in the wind  
Images  
You sang me Spanish lullabies  
The sweetest sadness in your eyes  
Clever trick_

_Well, I never want to see you unhappy  
I thought you'd want the same for me"_

- A Fine Frenzy, "Almost Lover"

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He can feel her eyes on him, poring, piercing, perfectly agonized in a way that he wishes he were blind, if only to erase the image of her sitting all the way over there by herself, so alone. He's trying to focus on the girl in front of him. She's cute. She'd almost be intelligent if he could make himself listen to what it is that she's saying; as it is, he can only nod, smile, pretend that he's whole, pretend that she'll be the one to fix him up, pretend that he can breathe. It's the biggest fucking lie, but if he doesn't tell himself that he'll be okay, he'll crumble right where he sits. His heart will fall to pieces and the shards will be so sharp that he won't be able to pick himself up again. He's got one more try left in him, and then…

He can think about it only in small, controlled intervals. He tries to, at least. Most of the time the weight jumps at him from nowhere, presses him hard against the floor, steals his breath and hides it away in her chest, right out of his reach. It is those days when he can't look at her, when he'd rather she have it, when he'd hold his breath all day if that meant she could take a few gasping, hiccupping snatches of air. She killed him – she almost killed him – but he's still here, he's still standing, limping around, numb, struggling. Out of everything, it takes the most strength to give her his air, and he knows that she hates herself for taking it. But he doesn't have much left to give.

He can see her even as he's avoiding her. She's trying so hard, but she's not fooling anyone. Not him. She's not fooling him. This other girl, this girl with the dancing eyes, this girl with the running words and the eager hands and the free, fervent heart, this girl isn't right. And it makes him laugh, quick and cruel, as if the sound is just another slight stab in his already punctured and chipping heart. This other girl isn't Lily. He's such a fool for having considered she'd be what he needed. There's only one thing that can help him now, and she's drowning in herself, sorry, lost, hurting. Once upon a time, her pain would've been his undoing; this hour of the night, it's only another wound.

He can let himself look up for a glance, just one, and everything in her face almost knocks him out of his chair, right to the floor where he would have stayed, had she not just given all his breath back, expanded his lungs to the bursting point. He looks. He waits. He watches, stares, holds his breath, holds her breath, takes in everything she's showing him as the firelight brightens her face and shines a halo around her fiery crown of hair like she's an angel sent to ruin him. He can read the apology in the emerald of her irises, the guilt in the gold around her pupil, the pain in the water he can see damming up on the bottom of her eyelids, even from across the room. And then she's gone, and, if possible, he's a bit more empty than before.

He can't move. He won't. He watches her with blurred eyed as she disappears into the dormitories. She takes him with her, and he closes his eyes as he sinks into his chair, unsure of who he is and why he let her have such a grasp on everything he thought he was. He's broken. She's broken. And he doesn't know how to fix it.

Bye, bye, _goodbye._

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	3. Blessed

_A/N: –grumbles–_ _I'm working, I'm working..._

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"We walked along a crowded street  
You took my hand and danced with me  
Images

_And when you left you kissed my lips  
You told me you'd never ever forget these images, no"_

- A Fine Frenzy, "Almost Lover"

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In the end, she does it because it's too hard for her to deal with anymore. She's tired – tired of being sad, tired of being angry, tired of being treated like she's a glass bauble, only capable of being handled with delicate hands. There are some days when she just wants sleep the hours away, knowing that when she wakes up, it'll be the same old song, the same old tired, broken song. Because she's bleeding. Because she broke him. Because she doesn't know how to fix it, doesn't have the energy to think about it anymore.

In the end, she does it because she sees what it's doing to him. He doesn't smile, and every frown, every line in his forehead, every time he sighs underneath his breath when he thinks nobody's looking – she's looking, she's always looking now, always – is just another gash. But she knows that she hasn't bled out yet because, damn it, it still _hurts_. Maybe if it didn't hurt so much she'd be able to ignore him, his pain, her pain, their silence. It hurts, though. _Always_.

In the end, she does it because everyone's watching. They pretend not to. They pretend like everything's okay, like this is just another fight in a series of fights that make up their every day, month, year; another fight that will end up in yet another unspoken truce. She can see it plastered on their faces – _any day now… _–but somewhere, underneath their proved patience and their tempered smiles, she can see that some of them know. She knows that, when his best friend looks at him, he knows that he's been ruined. She knows that, when she goes into her dormitory at night and sits at the window, staring at nothing, a little numb, a little depressed, her friends are waiting for her to come back.

In the end, she does it because she doesn't have anything left to lose. Not really. So she sucks up her pride, stuffs it away where she used to keep her hidden affections, and steps down the stairs to the beat of a soundless dirge. She tricks herself into feeling a tiny bit of confidence – _you're fine, you're fine, you'll be fine. _She takes another step, places her hand flat against the stone wall, the rough surface brushing against the soft skin of her fingers. _You're fine. _Another step. _You'll be fine. _When her toes reach the rug, she almost loses it, but the fire glints off his glasses and she's anchored in place, her confidence seeping down her body, sucked straight through her heels.

In the end, she does it because he's looking at her. He's _looking_. She feels bare in front of him, naked for the empty common room to see, stripped of her pride and her mistakes and her armor, every chink falling to the floor like a downpour, one after the other, _clink, clink, clink. _And when he blinks, when she sees his chest rise, she shifts. It's one step, one test, one question. He doesn't move. He probably can't. So she takes the steps forward, the darkness thickening after each footfall – or getting lighter, she can't tell anymore – her lungs burning for want of air. Slowly, so slowly, she takes the steps needed to bring her in front of him, and when she's there, when he's looking up at her with tentative eyes and a guarded press of his lips, she thanks God that she was able to cross over alive, thanks whatever is keeping him from running away from her.

In the end, she does it because he stands in front of her, because her hands are shaking when she presses them to his chest, because his heart is beating a soundless song through the soft skin of her fingers, straight through to her bones. She wants to say something. She wants to explain the sudden tears in her eyes, wants to explain why she just needs to touch him, wants to explain so much that she feels, wants, needs, but the words get lost somewhere in the dark and she finds that she can't breathe anymore. Her mouth opens – _I'm sorry I never meant to hurt you I'm sorry please look at me I'm sorry I'm sorry – _but instead a sob crawls through her vocal chords and she cracks.

In the end, she does it not because he doesn't hesitate, not because he wraps his too long arms around her too small waist, not because her feet leave the ground, not because her hands fit against his shoulders as she hangs on. She doesn't do it because, oh, God, he's crying, and now she can't inhale through the emotion in her throat – his tears are wet and hot against her neck and she pulls him closer, ever closer, closer than he's ever been, and she promises herself that she'll never let them sink themselves that low again. The darkness that licks at her ankles is too familiar and she doesn't want to taste it in the air for one more second.

In the end, she does it because he doesn't let her go. It's enough. She lets go of everything – her doubt, her anxiety, her anger, her sadness, her pride, her suspicion, her hesitance, her ego, her reservation – _bye, bye, goodbye – _and it presses from her pores, escapes through the tears soaking his shoulder, runs through her now choking breath. _I'm sorry I'm sorry I never meant to hurt you please forgive me I'm sorry, _she wants to say, and some of it comes out as incoherent babble, the words sticking to the damp skin of his neck, some of them hitting his shoulder, his ear, his chest. He catches phrases, _I was wrong _and_ don't leave _and _we were stupid_, but most of all it's _I'm sorry _and _please_ and somehow, for him, it's enough. And he doesn't let her go.

In the end, she does it because she loves him.

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End file.
